Mind Over Body
by Jayda Morgana
Summary: Lately Sherlock's been looking positively starved, and John's starting to worry. Could there be more to Sherlock's condition than meets the eye? Johnlock, rated T for possible triggers.
1. The Hollow Man

_**This fic is similar to one I posted a year ago and just wasn't happy with, but many aspects of it have changed. What I'm saying is, consider it an all-new story.**_

**Trigger warning: eating disorders**

* * *

When John looked at Sherlock, he saw beauty. Not just a beautiful mind, but a beautiful body, capable of so many things, from dashing about London to maneuvering under the covers. On any given day John had only to glance in Sherlock's direction to feel an electric current, pulsing through his every limb. The arse, the eyes, the lips, the hair - John couldn't allow himself to think of these things for long - at least, not in public places. And because Sherlock was, well, Sherlock, he probably knew _exactly_ what he was doing.

This, mind you, was John's thought process on any given day - i.e., any normal one. The circumstances as of late, however, had been far from normal.

Sherlock had always been lanky, and John had worried for him often enough, but never, not once, like this. Perhaps Sherlock had been growing thinner for ages, and John had just failed to notice. Perhaps those cheekbones had only grown sharper, those limbs turned to spindly ghosts of themselves, and John had been too dimwitted to observe. It hurt him that he didn't know, or that maybe he only noticed because he now had an intimate relationship with the man. Either way, Sherlock was growing emaciated, and the ex-soldier didn't know what he should do.

* * *

John remembered the first time he was struck by Sherlock's newfound figure. He'd been sitting at breakfast, reading the newspaper over a plate of eggs, when Sherlock swooshed into the room, his coat fanning out like a cape behind him.

"Case," he mumbled, pulling the coat around himself, "Obviously. Standard, triple homicide. You coming?"

John's first thought upon seeing his friend had been, _how does anyone look so thin in a Belstaff?_ He found himself bemused: he'd seen Sherlock wear the thick coat hundreds of times, why was he only thinking this now?

"Well, John?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

"Not until you eat something," John said, knowing as he pushed the eggs over that the attempt was futile.

Sherlock let out a petulant sigh. "Do you realize how busy I am, John?" he said, whipping out his phone and responding to a text. He pocketed the phone and whooshed out of the room, leaving John behind and above all, mildly annoyed.

* * *

The second time John noticed was that very night before bed. Even Sherlock hadn't been able to hide his exhaustion; the case had taken him all throughout London on foot, and a great deal of the time had been spent running. John hadn't even been able to ask about such obscure circumstances because by this point Sherlock was curled up on his side, sound asleep.

John didn't notice the emaciation at first; he was too amused by the soft snoring, the rise and fall of the chest. And then there was one of the large hands, curled into a fist against the duvet like a child's. John reached out and massaged the detective's dark curls fondly, loving moments like these. They showed him that his lanky git of a boyfriend could be less intense sometimes, could be soft and above all, very human.

When his hand trailed down to the cheek, that's when he again realized.

_Hollow_. That was the only word for it. The cheekbone wasn't like something off a model anymore, it was concave, severe and tender. John stopped himself before he pulled his hand back in horror. _What the hell?_

Sherlock, sensing the tension in John's arm, started awake.

"_What?_" He was still exhausted and not a little peeved.

"Sherlock, are you okay?"

"I was sleeping soundly just a moment ago. I thought you'd like that."

"Sherlock." John trailed his hands over his love's shoulders and arms, veering off at his tapered waist.

_Hollow. Empty._

"Have you eaten today?" he asked, worry tinging his voice.

"Eurgh, John, leave me alone," Sherlock complained, rolling over and burying his face in his pillow, back turned, revealing a sharp and unnerving glimpse of his spine.

John inhaled, feeling panicked. He tried to fall asleep but couldn't, too consumed with worry for the hollow man beside him.

* * *

For the next few days, John found himself busy at work, his thoughts for his patients at not for his love. For this reason, it was not for several days that John noticed for the third time.

He came home to what appeared to be an empty flat, until he heard the sound of the shower going. Mm, that sounded good - a nice, warm shower with Sherlock.

John darted up the stairs, trying and failing to contain the giddy feeling in his belly. He was exhausted from work, but he was never, _ever_ averse to shower sex. Who could be, when they had the chance not only to witness Sherlock in soapy, naked glory, but to touch him, to feel him, and above all, to bring him pleasure? God, he was getting hard just thinking about it.

He opened the bathroom door and found himself growing more aroused at Sherlock's vague silhouette, just behind the shower curtain. John hummed excitedly under his breath, stripping down and approaching quietly. He pulled the curtain aside, a wide smile on his face ...

… to find something he'd forgotten existed. He'd been expecting the luxurious curve of a man, cheeks, chest and bum rosy, half-smiling, half-sneering, beckoning him closer. This was not what he found. He saw a sopping-wet, shivering man, hair fiercely tangled and a livid expression on his face. He wasn't rosy. Every rib was visible; he looked sickly and tired.

"Get out!" Sherlock snapped, gritting his teeth and pulling the curtain closed.

John, stricken, grabbed his clothing and left the room, berating himself for not staying. For letting his own boyfriend bark orders at him like a complete sod.

In retrospect, John knew that he should've done something after that third incident. Helped Sherlock somehow - or at the very least, called Sherlock out on his eating habits, or lack thereof. He hadn't, though, and he hated himself for it.

Especially after what happened during their next case.


	2. Collapse

Perhaps the reason for John's lack of action was that he hadn't observed Sherlock to be incapacitated in any way. He still went off on cases, and his mind appeared to work as well as ever. John played the part of the idle worrier for almost a week, beating himself up day after day for doing nothing.

There came, of course, a turning point. Lestrade called them in on the MacDougal case, and Sherlock solved it as astutely as ever. Things were by all appearances going well until MacDougal lured Sherlock, John and the Yarders into a Shoreditch alley, knife in hand, high on narcotics and the thrill of the chase.

"Might as well give it up, MacDougal," one of the Yarders said firmly. "You're outnumbered, and we have backup at every street corner you can imagine."

The murderer let out a sharp laugh and proceeded to bolt down the alleyway, logic tossed to the winds. Sherlock, John and Lestrade took off after him as the Yarders spread out in the planned formation. Sherlock was by far the fastest, sprinting after the killer like some crazed animal, the pale flush of his cheeks visible in the moonlight.

_And the sharp jaw,_ John thought nervously as he struggled to keep up.

Sherlock leapt upon MacDougal and sent him crashing to the pavement. The man let out a strangled gasp and sank to the ground as Lestrade cuffed him.

"Oi!" MacDougal spat. "Get'im off me!"

"What-?" Lestrade peered through the darkness to see what he was talking about. Sherlock, by all appearances, looked to be slumped over the murderer's shoulders, breathing spastically.

"Hey-" John gasped, bending over and pulling Sherlock away (not much effort was needed - another scary thought). "What're you doing, Sherlock-?"

Sherlock let out a gasping cough and collapsed right into John's arms.

"Hey, easy there," John said. "Hey, Sherlock?" He was vaguely aware of Lestrade hauling the criminal away, as well as the others hovering nearby, concerned expressions on their faces. Hell, even Sally Donovan had the decency to look worried.

"Sherlock, you with me?" John propped Sherlock up against the brick wall of the alley and peered at him through the dim light. He felt his love's forehead and cheeks - clammy and cold. His mouth hung open dazedly and his eyes were unseeing. Sherlock's shoulders were shaking; John did his best to hold them steady.

"Hey, love, will you answer me?" John begged.

Sherlock muttered something in gibberish.

"Low blood sugar," John realized. "It must be." He turned to the Yarders and called out desperately for food. Something, _anything_. God, it didn't matter now. He just couldn't stand to see Sherlock like this.

Anderson, of all people, ran off to the nearest drugstore. He returned within minutes with a coke, a packet of crackers, and various types of candy. John offered the coke to Sherlock first, watching to make sure he drank. His Adam's apple, pale and prominent in his throat, bobbed as he swallowed. John handed over the crackers and watched as Sherlock painstakingly ate two. He realized it was the first time he'd witnessed Sherlock eating in, well … weeks, really.

"Jesus," Lestrade muttered, shooing the inspectors away and kneeling close to the doctor, "That was scary. Has this sort of thing happened before?"

"No," John said, "Never."

"He doesn't look good," Lestrade mentioned, as though Sherlock weren't gaining consciousness right before him. "Thin as a whippet. I mean, even more so than before. I don't remember him ever being like this, John - not even back when he was using." The DI paused. "You don't think he's taken up drugs again, do you?"

"I don't know." John frowned. "I don't think so, though. This all seems so … deliberate. He refuses food all the time, and-" John felt himself beginning to panic. He knew it wasn't very doctorly of him, but it was so, _so_ much harder when the patient was someone you not only knew, but who meant so much. Sherlock wasn't just his boyfriend, he was the love of his life, his other half. For these reasons, the ex-soldier couldn't seem to maintain the proper bedside manner, and he hated himself for it.

"You'd best get back to Baker Street," Lestrade suggested. "Unless you'd rather go to hospital?"

"I think I'll take care of things," John said. "I owe this to him. I should've helped him sooner." His lip quivered. "God. I knew. I _knew_, and I didn't do a bloody thing."

"Don't beat yourself up," Lestrade said. "Sherlock Holmes is as stubborn as a mule - more, even. Maybe he'll listen to you now. At any rate, I imagine he doesn't want to be fainting in front of Donovan and Anderson anymore, so …"

"Yeah. Good point." John knew the DI was trying to lighten the mood, but he didn't exactly appreciate it. "I'd best call a cab. Sherlock?" he said, turning to his disoriented friend. "MacDougal's been caught. We're going back to Baker Street, okay?"

"Mm-m," Sherlock muttered noncommittally.

John steered Sherlock in the direction of the nearest road, parted ways with Lestrade, and procured a cab. Once they were home, John led Sherlock up to the sitting room and propped him up on the sofa.

"Is he alright?" Mrs. Hudson asked, hovering worriedly at the threshold.

John shook his head.

"Is there something I can do?"

"How about some food?" John asked. "Something light. Soup, maybe?"

The landlady was quick to comprehend the gravity of the situation. For that reason, she bustled back down the stairs, saving her "not your housekeeper" comments for another time.

"You know what happened tonight, right, Sherlock?" John asked, watching his love closely. Sherlock, half-sprawled on the sofa, loosened his scarf from his neck and rolled his eyes.

"Hypoglycemia, isn't it obvious? I'm better now, so-"

"No. No, you're not," John said angrily. "I've been letting this go for too long now. Sherlock ... you collapsed on top of that criminal, for God's sake!" He felt the tears prick his eyes. "This is my fault. I'm a rotten boyfriend."

"It's not your fault," Sherlock said, leaning back and gazing up disdainfully (due to exhaustion or to wanting to start a row, John wasn't sure). "It's nobody's fault. You can't always be the hero, John."

John was absolutely flabbergasted. "What do you mean, 'always be the hero'? God, Sherlock, I can't believe we're fighting about this. I'm trying to help you."

Sherlock sighed, sucking in his cheeks in a way that made him look almost skeletal. "I'm a grown man; I can take care of myself."

"Yeah, well, I'm your boyfriend, and you're acting like you're three."

"Insulting me will get you nowhere."

"I just-I don't know what to do!" John pinched his nose, feeling what could only be described as the weight of the world on his shoulders. "We're supposed to be looking out for each other. I'm trying my best, here. I just wish you'd let me do something for you."

Sherlock paused for a moment and considered. He nodded. "You could help me take my coat off," he said, standing up shakily and moving to shrug it free.

John gently pulled the Belstaff from Sherlock's trembling form and draped it over a chair. "Mrs. Hudson's bringing soup," he said. "Maybe if you just spend the night in, get back a little strength? We could finish that _Doctor Who_ episode."

Sherlock nodded, curling back up on the sofa again. "Would you bring me my pyjamas, John?" he asked. "I'd feel like an utter arse if I fell asleep in this," he murmured, motioning to his expensive suit.

"Yes. Yes, of course."

John made his way up to the bedroom, forcing himself to think positively. Sherlock, for all things, was being unusually compliant. That was a good sign.

Right?


	3. Complete Jurisdiction

As their _Doctor Who_ viewing turned into something of a marathon, Sherlock sipped his soup like an obedient child. He didn't want to and he sure as hell wouldn't if John weren't there, but he hated seeing his love so distraught. If anything, it was nice to sit near the fire, curled up in the crook of John's arm. It was even nicer to be pulled closer with each obligatory sip, to feel the doctor's breath tickle his ear as he whispered endearments. If this was what eating brought on, Sherlock would make a show of doing just that.

Long after midnight, when John was fast asleep, Sherlock woke to the sound of his stomach rumbling. His transport was betraying him again; it seemed to do this more often than ever. Sherlock knew he had to fight it, though. He was not weak. He had to control it.

He made his way downstairs and opened the fridge to find … absolutely nothing, aside from several appendages. Sherlock was secretly pleased; he had no choice but to sit out the rest of the night, hunger pangs and all.

On his way back upstairs, he caught a glimpse of himself in the decorative mirror. The dim light harshly reflected his pale, wan features. He watched as his mouth turned up in a pained smile. He didn't just want this, he needed this with every inch of his being - the ability to stay thin, to stay lithe. He had control over so little else.

The smile quickly dissipated. Perhaps he had control, perhaps he had power over something in his chaotic life - hell, his chaotic _mind_ - but he knew he wasn't happy. He hated seeing John so upset. He hated the idea that this was the one thing he felt he had.

He was startled out of his reverie by John's muffled voice.

"Sh'lock?"

"Right here." The detective tore his gaze away from the reflection and made his way upstairs, finding John's open arms in the darkness, warm and encompassing. He felt John stiffen; it was too easy for the doctor to wrap his arms around the skeletal figure.

"Come back to bed," John suggested.

"Mm." Sherlock followed, holding John's hand and allowing himself to be led. He snuggled under the warm duvet and pressed up against John, burrowing in close. He was freezing and John was warm; staying near was his only chance at making it comfortably through the night. Not even the hunger pangs were enough to stop him.

"Tomorrow … I have a plan," John mumbled incoherently.

"Oh?"

"Yeah, and I'm gonna tell you all about it … when I'm fully awake. It's about what happened today."

" … oh."

"Don't worry so much, love, not now," John pressed his mouth against Sherlock's neck. He sucked momentarily, and Sherlock let out a pleased gasp. "We'll get through this. Stay here, for now. We'll figure this out, I promise."

Sherlock wrapped his arms around the shorter man, massaging the tired shoulders as John began to plant a series of kisses, starting at his neck and up to the plump mouth.

_The only part of Sherlock that isn't small,_ John thought, feeling his heart burn.

As John's kisses grew quicker, more urgent, Sherlock felt his heart flutter with panic. This. This was not control. The sensations he was feeling were pleasurable, and yet, he felt himself becoming afraid. He felt conflicted; he felt as though he were being played like some sort of instrument.

_I still have control over the transport,_ he thought to himself, tilting his head back to allow John easier access.

* * *

"What can I do to help you, Sherlock?" John asked the next morning. Sherlock was sitting acquiescently in his leather chair, his hair limp, his suit baggy. John sat across from him, the proper consultant.

Sherlock couldn't think up an answer.

"What if I wrote you reminders, so you'll remember to eat while I'm at work?"

"I'd forget," Sherlock answered. "You know how focused I get during cases."

John pondered. "Well, what if you had a text alert? You always answer your phone, so what if I sent the reminders?"

"That … might work." Sherlock couldn't help but concede. He wasn't sure he liked the idea, though. He didn't want John telling him how much to eat, controlling his food intake.

Control. God, the word made him sick. Why did he need it so much, anyway? It was a stupid, dull thing that boring people needed in their boring lives. Was he a perfectionist? A control freak?

_Certainly a freak,_ Sherlock thought, bitterly recalling the Yarders' insults.

"Okay, good. Fantastic!" John looked genuinely happy. "I'm not expecting you to eat three square meals, but what if you had a snack here and there? And I could have Mrs. Hudson bring you tea in the afternoon, or a biscuit, or something."

Sherlock shrugged. "I suppose I wouldn't be the proper Englishman if I didn't partake in teatime."

John laughed. "Jesus, Sherlock, that's the first time I've heard your humor in … God, how long has it been?" He grinned. "I'm glad, I really am. Thanks for being open to this." He kissed Sherlock firmly on the mouth and went to put on his coat - he had a long shift ahead of him, after all. "Expect texts from me today!" he called as he exited the flat.

Sherlock let out a small sigh and flopped down on the sofa. Judging by the gloomy weather and the lack of emails there would be no cases today, and if he really wanted to eat he'd have to stop at Tesco or pester Mrs. Hudson. Shockingly enough, he wasn't even in the mood to do the latter. He felt groggy; taking a nap seemed to be the best option. He made his way up to the bedroom, stripped down, and flung himself into bed in utter dejection.

_The Great Sherlock Holmes, taking a nap?_ the voice in his head mocked. _Pathetic._

Sherlock buried himself under the covers petulantly and pressed a pillow over his head, hoping to drown out the words. His inner monologue had become particularly nasty as of late, clouding his mind with reminders about "it all being just transport" and how he was "weak, weak, weak," for not being able to get a hold on his life.

It wasn't the first time he'd felt this way. He'd first felt this utter hopelessness as a child at school, already an outcast, the victim of merciless teasing and torment. Of all things, a lack of appetite had been the result. He'd been quite the worrier for awhile, until he'd learned to say "to hell with them all" and move on. The worrying and need for control only lay dormant; it resurfaced during University, throughout his drug use and confused relationship with several partners. Those had been dark times, but he'd survived them, too. He hadn't eaten much then, either. He'd felt too sick to do so and even more nauseated when he did. Somewhere in the back of his head, he'd convinced himself that as long as he maintained the mind-over-body mentality, he'd pull through. He was a thinking, deductive machine, after all, and he wasn't going to allow his physical body to become another obstacle. As long as he had complete jurisdiction over his blasted being, he was utterly convinced he would be okay. It was That One Thing, after all … that one thing that kept him from completely going under.

He remembered his old boyfriend from Uni, Victor Trevor. Victor had broken up with him for this very reason.

"It's an eating disorder," he'd said, as though Sherlock were stupid. "I just don't get it. _Why?_ No, ignore that. What I mean is, is there anything I can do to help you? I want to help."

"There is nothing you can do for me," Sherlock had said coldly, not caring if he sounded melodramatic. His rigid responses had led to a full-out fight, with Victor storming out of the room and slamming the door. He'd called Sherlock later and completely called it quits.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," he'd said. "I've tried to help you, I really have. I just can't do this any longer if you're gonna be so damn stubborn!"

Sherlock had been secretly apathetic to the breakup. He hadn't much cared for Victor anyway; he'd only used him for drugs and sex. Long story short, Sherlock eventually got clean, and with the lack of drugs in his life, all the bad sorts of unpredictability vanished. As far as he was concerned, his work, the danger of the cases, were a good thing. They grounded him, kept him from behaving as he had. He still forgot to eat sometimes, though not nearly as often as when he'd been using.

Enter John Watson. John encouraged him to become a better friend, and in turn, a better man. When John pressed food on him, Sherlock ate, and began to fill out his clothes more naturally than before. He didn't even feel thick or sluggish, as he'd worried he'd be. He felt whole and complete and infinitely lucky to have the ex-soldier by his side.

Eventually John admitted his love for him, and that's when the tables turned. Sherlock knew ecstasy for the first time in his life, and by God, it was so much better than any narcotic. He was positively gleeful that John returned his affections, and told him so. As time went on, though, the mood changed. Sherlock began to grow fearful. Everything they did together - not just sex, but smaller things, too - caused the worrying to start up again. Worry that he couldn't control the sensations he was feeling. Worry that this was too good to be true. Worry that John would someday leave him; leave him for those pretty blonde girls he'd once been so enamored of …

He couldn't eat anymore. He knew - goddamn it, he _knew_, deep down that John Watson was utterly loyal and would never do such a thing. And yet, he still fretted like an anxious little boy. And he couldn't eat to the point of starvation. He didn't know what was wrong with him; compared to other life events, this one should have been the least anxiety-inducing. He was in a happy relationship, for God's sake! Why was he overthinking things so much?

Sherlock thought, and thought, and thought. He hated his mind sometimes, the way it overanalyzed and churned out worst-case scenarios. Hell, it was enough to keep his mind busy until John came home and found him tangled up in the sheets.

"Sherlock," he said. "I sent you four reminders today, and a bunch of other texts. You never opened them. Did you … did you eat today?"

Sherlock swallowed. He didn't have it in him to utter a snappish retort, but he didn't want to disappoint his love, either. He knew his expression betrayed him, though, as well as his position on the bed - he looked as though he'd been lying there all day. He began to utter a denial but his voice broke before he could get all the words out.

"Oh, Sherlock," John said, moving close, wrapping his arms around the thin man, "Sherlock, Sherlock …" His voice was equal parts soothing and troubled as he massaged Sherlock's black curls.

"John," Sherlock said, heaving a sigh against the doctor's firm shoulder.

"Yes, what is it, Sherlock?" John asked, desperation filling his voice.

Sherlock paused. He wanted to tell John about what he'd been thinking of today, about why he just couldn't eat.

"Nothing," he murmured, sinking into the crook of John's arm. "Absolutely nothing."


	4. Promise

"John, why is Lestrade refusing my help on this case?"

"Hm?" John looked up absently from his laptop.

"He so obviously needs my help … why is he saying he doesn't?"

John shrugged, knowing it would do no good to provoke his already-stroppy boyfriend. Sherlock was perched on his chair like a bird of prey, glowering at his phone, his long fingers tapping out a hasty response.

"Hang on," John said. "Don't go telling Greg something you'll regret-"

"Or what?"

"Or he might never let you on a crime scene again, regardless of how much help is needed."

Sherlock sighed, his bony shoulders slumped in dramatic defeat. "You know why he's not giving me permission, John. Tell me why."

John groaned. "Well, the truth of it is, he feels somewhat responsible for you, God knows why."

"For what?"

"He doesn't want you collapsing on a case again, Sherlock, not if he can help it! Besides, you're hardly in any condition to walk about normally, much less chase criminals." John's eyebrows arched knowingly. "Last night, remember?"

Sherlock's features grew even sharper with frustration. After John had found him sleeping the day away, sweat-stained and miserable, he'd insisted that Sherlock get cleaned up and meet him downstairs. The detective had been compliant, about to take a shower when he'd found his legs beginning to wobble. He knew he wouldn't be able to stand the duration of the shower, so he sat in the bath and didn't move a muscle for an hour, too exhausted to do anything else. This ended with John finding Sherlock, scooping him right up, and leading him downstairs ensconced in nothing but his dressing-gown. The doctor had attempted to handle the situation with a good bedside manner but let slip something about being "sick of this bullshit" as he prepared lasagne on the stove. He sat in front of the TV and pretended not to watch as Sherlock ate, but his intentions had been clear. Sherlock finished the plate and briefly considered throwing it up afterwards - not even for a sense of self-possession, but because the lasagne was burnt and he was angry at being forced to do something.

The couple ended up not speaking for the rest of the night. Sherlock curled up on the sofa and didn't respond to John's queries. John had attempted to put a comforting hand on Sherlock's shoulder, only to have it slapped away. He made his way upstairs and went to bed alone, leaving Sherlock with a pain in his chest and a sick feeling in his gut.

John hated when they fought, but he hated even more that Sherlock hadn't been walking properly. And now Sherlock was texting Lestrade, asking - _begging_ - for some sort of case, something to alleviate his boredom, but the inspector wasn't playing.

"So," Sherlock drawled, "You and Lestrade are conspiring against me because of something that is entirely none of your business?"

"We're not 'conspiring', Sherlock. Jesus. We're trying to help you." John ran a hand through his hair anxiously. "Do you know I was _thisclose_ to bringing you to A&E last night? You looked awful. The only thing that stopped me was that you hadn't actually gone unconscious or something."

"Oh, so now you're insulting my appearance?" Sherlock spat, standing up and glaring daggers at the man across the room. "You, John, of all people, so quick to lament on how attractive I am? You have pretty narrow standards, it would seem."

"If you're looking like death, I-"

"Why do you bother?" Sherlock genuinely didn't understand. "Why do you waste so much energy on me? This is a personal matter and like I was saying, it's none of your-"

"It's a fucking _eating disorder_, Sherlock."

Sherlock's breath hitched in his throat. He couldn't help but think of Victor, the way he'd uttered something so similar all those years ago. Right before he'd broken up with him.

Oh, God. No. No no no no _no_.

"Are you going to leave?" he asked. His deep baritone did nothing to disguise the childlike fear in his voice.

"What the bloody hell are you talking about?"

Now Sherlock was confused. Just a second ago, he'd been so convinced that John would up and go, that his world would become chaotic again - that his mind would be thrown off its axis, that all control would be lost. Because if there had been one control throughout the past several years, it had been that nothing - absolutely _nothing_ - had convinced John that he should leave. Now, Sherlock wasn't so sure.

"Nevermind." He ran a hand through his hair, just as John had done. "Just-it's nothing."

"Okay." John paused. "I'm not going to leave you, Sherlock. You know that, right? I never, ever would, and I never will. Got it?"

"I-" Sherlock was, for once in his life, at a loss for words. He wanted to desperately to explain his fears, to tell John about his need for something, _anything_, to remain a fixed point in his confused mind, his confused life. He'd had plenty of nasty spells with drugs and more than enough people growing sick of him and walking out. He'd been terrified that John was about to do the same - and why shouldn't he? They fought all the time; Sherlock could well understand if John wanted to leave, too.

He thought to himself, what if food didn't have to be the control anymore? Hell, what if there didn't have to be a control, period? What if there was instead a constant, and that constant was John?

"Can I tell you something?" Sherlock asked, his voice soft.

John nodded. Sherlock stepped close, leading John over to the sofa. They sat side by side, Sherlock rubbing John's palms fretfully.

"Hey, love?" John said. "Relax. I'm sure I can handle what you're about to say."

Sherlock nodded, and the rubbing went from anxious to comforting. He took John's hands and held them tight, meeting the doctor's warm eyes. "I don't know how to explain this, but …"

In the most diplomatic terms possible (diplomatic for Sherlock, anyway), he explained his need for self-possession. He explained the confusion he'd felt time and time again, what with people leaving and feeling hurt and feeling like he didn't have something to cling to, for lack of a better word. He didn't tell John that he feared their relationship, because that would only cause more harm than good, but he explained that because such a close, intimate way of life was new to him, he felt such disturbances all over again. The explanation took awhile and involved a lot of pauses, furrowed brows, and encouraging words on John's part.

John rubbed at Sherlock's shoulders soothingly. "I hear you, Sherlock. Look - I get it if you're feeling overwhelmed. I entirely hear what you're saying. And you know what? I want you to know that I will never, _ever_ leave you. Ever. I can't emphasize that enough. Even if we have our differences, I will always be your friend. So I guess what I'm wondering is, do you need a break from - this? Us? Because if that's throwing you off-kilter we can always go back to being friends. But just know that I'm not leaving. There. That can be your constant, okay? I'm not fucking leaving."

Before John knew what was happening, Sherlock had swooped in and caught him up in a fiery kiss, his mouth hot against John's lower lip. His arms slipped around John's middle and clung to the solid waist for dear life. John's hands found their way into Sherlock's hair, which had still retained much of its glossiness even after the massive drop in weight. Sherlock swung a leg over and straddled John sensuously, right there on the sofa, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Thank you, John," he breathed, feeling as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. John hummed appreciatively as Sherlock rocked. He was enjoying the heat of the moment perhaps even more than Sherlock was, but there was something still tugging at him, demanding to be addressed.

"Sherlock?"

"Yesss?" the detective purred.

"This means you're going to eat, right?"

"Yes. Yes, of course."

* * *

Regardless of any promises kept, however, Sherlock was still dangerously thin. It didn't matter if he stuffed himself right then and there, he was still on the brink of collapse.

And he did do that.

Collapse.

Right that very evening, just as he was getting out of the bath. On the tiled floor. Shivering, naked, feeling utterly pathetic.

"_Sherlock!_" John yelled, bursting into the bathroom. "Jesus Christ. Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God. I've got to call for help. Jesus-"

He lifted Sherlock up onto shaky knees, only to discover that Sherlock was crying. Not just crying, but downright sobbing, loud, wracking hiccups deep in his throat. It was so uncharacteristic that John was jolted into what could only be described as survival mode, slapped in the face with the gravity of the situation.

"It's gonna be okay, Sherlock, you hear me? It's gonna be okay. I'm going to make a phone call, and we're going to get you to hospital, do you hear me?"

Sherlock nodded, the sobbing hiccups over as soon as they'd started.

John led Sherlock to the bed, called 999, and proceeded to dress his love in pyjamas as he hovered on the edge of consciousness. It was all John could do to look at the razor-sharp edges of Sherlock's hipbones, the protruding ribs, the spindly arms ...

John Watson had gone for far too long pretending he could make things okay, pretending he could handle everything all by himself. He'd convinced himself for the entirety of the afternoon that he didn't need to take any outside action, that his promise had been some sort of magic cure.

He'd been wrong. Sometimes, promises weren't enough - not when someone was already hovering on the edge.


	5. The Need for Change

_**Merry Christmas! Here, have some angst ...**_

* * *

Sherlock didn't remember being in an ambulance, or being rushed to A&E, or much of anything until he was fully awake. He found himself in a hospital bed, dressed in a thin paper gown that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. This did nothing for his appearance, however - he still looked deathly pale and felt as though he might dry heave at any given moment.

Sherlock had always hated hospitals. He was nothing if not clinical, but he hated the misery and solemnity that seemed to follow the doctors about like a foul odor. He especially hated it now, because he knew he hadn't been washed and he smelled like absolute shit.

These thoughts were momentary, however, because he soon found himself filled with concern. What was he doing here?

Oh, right. Passing out on the floor. Crying like a child.

_God,_ he thought, _how humiliating._

Another thought: where was John? He had to be somewhere nearby, right?

As he thought about the ex-soldier, somewhere off on the horizon, several aides and a doctor entered the room. They led him through all the preliminary rubbish and he nodded acquiescently, hoping they couldn't sense the lack of concern. It wasn't that he didn't care about his condition, of course - nothing could be farther from his mind - but he didn't like it being discussed with him by people he didn't know, or more importantly, trust.

"Your boyfriend and your brother are waiting just outside," the doctor said. "Would you like them to stop in?"

Brother? _Brother?_ No. God, no!

"Boyfriend, yes," Sherlock answered. "The brother can wait outside."

"Very well." The doctor exited and John made his entrance. His eyes were terribly bagged and his mouth was stretched with worry.

"Oh, Sherlock," he breathed, feeling a sob hitch in his throat, but no … he had to be strong. He had to do this for the man on the bed. His love, his life, his only.

"You brought Mycroft," Sherlock said, his voice quaking with rage. "This is absolutely none of his business."

"He's family, Sherlock-"

"Oh, and has he ever shown concern before?" Sherlock demanded. "He sticks his nose in matters that don't concern him and does nothing to assist anyone. He sits on his fat arse all day and-"

"Please, Sherlock," John said, practically begging. "You don't have to see him, but let's not fight, okay? And don't call him fat. Especially in these circumstances, we shouldn't be throwing out comments about anyone's weight."

Sherlock realized what he'd said. "Yes. I'm sorry, you're right."

"Sherlock, you're over a stone underweight," John said, his voice shaking. "And I know we talked earlier, but, look - this has got to change, okay? I told you earlier today that I would never leave, and I meant it. There are no ifs, ands, or buts about it. I need you to get better. Those two things are entirely separate. If you don't get better, though, I will be completely desolate, and chances are, I will probably lose you, not by my own choice. So please, if not for yourself, let me help you get better for me, alright?"

Sherlock nodded once.

"Can you walk, d'ya think?" John asked suddenly.

"What?"

"Just what I said."

Sherlock stood up on shaky limbs, and John supported him as best he could.

"I want to show you something."

Sherlock followed confusedly as John led him over to a full-length mirror in the corner of the room.

"Take a look," he said.

Sherlock met his gaze in the mirror and frowned.

"No, don't," John said, rubbing his love's back in small circles. "I want you to look, and see what I see. I see a posh, lanky git who's beautiful beyond reason. I see glossy curls of hair and the most wonderfully prominent Cupid's bow to grace God's earth. I see large, protective hands and eyes that search, that understand … that hold the world.

"I see all these things now, and always will. But what I don't see now is health. I don't see those flushed cheeks or that plump arse or those strong arms. And if I can't appeal to your sense of survival, maybe I can appeal to your vanity, yeah?"

Sherlock actually laughed. "John Watson, you're mad."

"No shit. Point being, Sherlock, you can't actually enjoy feeling this way, can you? Feel bony and sick, being locked up in hospital? Seeing me sad? And perhaps worst of all, knowing that this can't feel nearly as good if there isn't as much surface area …" John slid his hand across Sherlock's bum with a wicked grin on his face, well aware that through the hospital gown, the touch felt nearly as electric as if it were across bare skin.

Sherlock shivered with pleasure. John pulled his hand away and looked at Sherlock's reflection in the mirror. Sherlock did the same.

"I … I need to fix this," he whispered, straightening his shoulders with new conviction. "I _want_ to fix this."


	6. Retrospect

Sherlock's stay in hospital was by no means enjoyable. He was forced to see Mycroft more than he desired (namely, once, at John's insistence), and spent a great deal of time in bed with little to no mental stimulation. The misery was over within the week, however; he was permitted to go home once he was doing better, and once the doctors were made aware that John would do all he could to get him back on the right track.

Everything sounded so perfect - as perfect as it could be, considering the circumstances. Everything was tying itself up in shiny packaging, topped with a pretty bow. Because things couldn't stay bad forever, right? Not with Sherlock. Sherlock always found a way to make things okay.

Didn't he?

* * *

_"Freak."_

_"Smart-arse."_

_"Weirdo."_

_By all appearances the insults were having no effect. Sherlock sat stoically in the corner of the sandbox, pretending not to care as his classmates teased him. Surely it wasn't his fault that Teacher liked him best? He couldn't help his vast knowledge of, well … all sorts of things._

_Especially when he made those _observations_. The other children _hated_ those. They were old enough to possess some degree of self-consciousness, so when Sherlock unintentionally pointed out their shortcomings, his words left a bitter sting. The children knew he was a bit socially inept, and yet they teased him anyway. It felt good to show Mr. Smart-Arse Sherlock Holmes who was boss._

_The words left Sherlock in a perpetual state of nausea. He'd come home from school and be unable to eat a thing. He envied Mycroft, who certainly didn't have a problem in this department, and would resort to giving him childish monikers like "Fatty" and "Blimp" … as he continued to grow thinner and thinner, propelled by the cruelty of his peers._

_Mycroft saw how ill his little brother looked, and yet never thought to mention it to Mummy or Father. Sherlock was a twit to him, after all, and the elder Holmes was still licking his wounds._

* * *

_"Well, do you want this or not?"_

_"Of course." There was that pretense of calm, again. Sherlock seemed to be the master of it, especially now._

_Harrison Reed, his third boyfriend in just as many weeks, ran his hands along Sherlock's chest and sighed appreciatively._

_"Beautiful," he breathed._

_Sherlock, against his wishes, felt himself begin to harden. _Control yourself,_ he thought irritably, clenching his hands into fists._

_"Come now, Sherlock, _relax,_" Harrison smirked, pressing his mouth against Sherlock's own and speaking between gasps. "Forget all about those other blokes. They're nothing, now. Think only of me."_

_The thing Sherlock couldn't explain was that he _wanted_ this. And yet at the same time he didn't. He wasn't sure. He still felt he owed something to his past boyfriends, though they'd soon grown tired of his snobbery and moved on. He didn't know what he wanted; everything was so chaotic and confused._

_He let Harrison Reed take him every night for the rest of the month. In return, he wouldn't - couldn't - eat a thing. It was recompense, in a way - he allowed himself the pleasure of letting go, of letting his lover do the work, but he would not eat. __In the back of his mind, he knew he was being illogical, and yet, he didn't care. It was nice, not having to think, letting Harrison take control, and then to be able to regain his equilibrium at the end of the day. Oddly satisfying, in the most obscure of ways._

_Sherlock, however, knew when to stop; he wasn't a fool. One morning in the chem lab he stumbled, nearly knocking over several test tubes, and knew the falling was a result of his fast. He knew he had to make a choice: it was either go on without food and stay with Harrison, or eat again and leave._

_He chose, after much deliberation, the latter._

* * *

_Victor came next. Sherlock was so enamored of him that he was willing to give up food again. He got drugs out of the deal, too, and that was always a plus._

_Unlike Harrison, Victor was actually concerned for Sherlock's health, but Sherlock didn't care. Which led to a dramatic walk-out, leaving Sherlock desolate, on the brink of an OD, and in hospital. Apparently he'd cared more than he'd realized. The whole affair was one Sherlock didn't wish to remember; he'd deleted most of the finer details._

_Long story short, Sherlock thought that, on top of his drug problem, his confused sexual history, and his need for stability, he ought not to add an eating disorder to the list. So once again, he stopped fasting._

_Then along came John._

* * *

John.

_John?_

_Something did not compute._

_John loved him. L-O-V-E-D him, and continued to do so. He'd lamented on the subject hundreds of times, and besides, all it took was one look, one touch from John for Sherlock to know, and to never, ever doubt. So why had he stopped eating again?_

_Oh, right: The Fear, back with a vengeance. The Control Freak, in for the kill._

_But John was as loyal as they came. He'd even made a promise that he'd never leave, not even if the going got rough. Now that was sure something._

_But could John save him? Could John stop these resurgences of memory, these visitations?_

_These_ nightmares?

* * *

Sherlock woke in a cold sweat, breathily heavily, his hair plastered to his neck and forehead. Before he could determine where he was, John was holding him, stroking him, soothing him gently.

"I'm here," he kept repeating.

Sherlock nodded. "I know," he lisped, still cloudy with sleep. "Strange dreams."

"What of?"

"All sorts of memories. Coherent ones. Mostly."

"Sherlock-?"

"I thought I'd deleted those, for the most part. I guess not."

"Sherlock, what the bloody hell are you talking about?"

The detective sighed heavily, leaning back against John's chest, a hollow cheekbone pressed against the crook of an arm. "I was remembering the other times I couldn't eat. There were several occasions, none as bad as this last one. I couldn't - I can't - figure out why this time around, it was the worst."

"Maybe your emotions are stronger," John said. "I mean, if you love me, maybe you aren't used to such a lack of control … even if it's the positive kind?"

Sherlock paused and considered. To John's surprise, he let out a gleeful snort. "For God's sake, John, don't flatter yourself."

John chuckled. "Am I onto something, though?"

"Maybe." Sherlock considered. "Probably."

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"Will you … will you tell me about those times? I don't care if you delete them after, or whatever, but I want you to tell me what you remember. Okay?"

Sherlock nodded. "Okay."

He told John everything. He described the memories, delving into even more detailed accounts of each scenario. John listened attentively, though it was all very painful to hear.

"On second thought … I don't want you deleting those, Sherlock," he said. "Even if they're painful. I want you to remember so that this sort of thing doesn't happen again."

"It won't," Sherlock promised.

"How do I know?"

"Because you told me earlier that you weren't leaving, and I'm never deleting that."

"Oh-_Sherlock._ Oh, God." John pulled his love into a warm embrace. "I'm-I'm so glad." He felt tears choke his voice. "I am so, so glad. We're going to get you better, Sherlock. It's going to happen, starting right now."

Sherlock sighed with relief, curled a hand against John's shirt and burrowed in close. John, though fully awake, didn't dare move for anything. He didn't want to interrupt his love in such a state of peace.

Hell, he didn't want to interrupt the _world_, because moments like these didn't come about often.


	7. Coexistence

_**Last chapter, so hopefully you feel some closure. In other news, when you get the chance to watch 'The Empty Hearse', I hope you enjoy! It's absolutely brilliant :D**_

* * *

Sherlock sat perched on the sofa, watching crap telly as John cooked. His fingers tapped skittishly at his sides, and he found himself growing impatient. Couldn't they just get this over with, already?

Once John was done cooking the pasta, he set a small plate in front of Sherlock and smiled encouragingly.

"I'll give you space," he promised. "No rush. No nothing, yeah?"

"Mm," Sherlock nodded vaguely.

God, it took so long. _So_ long. The plate was long cold and John had gone to bed before Sherlock took his first bite. He only took three more after that, and they were absolute agony. Blocking out his poisonous thoughts was hellish, reminding himself what John had said even more so. Old habits died hard, as the saying went.

Sherlock glanced at the plate, less than a third finished off, and smiled softly to himself. He felt a sort of relief in knowing what he'd done.

It was really rather odd, sometimes. The Great Sherlock Holmes, busting criminals day in and day out, couldn't even find the courage to finish a plate of spaghetti. He'd eaten some of it, though, and that was definitely something.

* * *

The road to recovery wasn't easy. It seldom is, after all.

There were many times - God, so many times - that Sherlock wanted to call it quits. Wanted to forget about food, forget about his transport. Several times he almost convinced himself that John was only temporary, like the others. That he would be left again, that he would feel like a freak once more.

Keyword being _almost_.

For every thought of this kind there was the kindhearted army doctor to push it away. For every time Sherlock forgot to eat (which was still viable to happen; cases could be distracting, after all), John was always there, stalwart and loving as ever.

* * *

It was starting to get easier. Sherlock grew more accustomed to forgetting about the past, thinking only of John and what he'd said. With every promise, each bite became something less of a chore.

He thought about his need for stability and wondered if perhaps someday it might be outgrown … and what a world that would be! Sherlock couldn't remember a period where his need for things to be exactly a certain way, to work out in a certain manner, hadn't existed. The idea of it sounded positively delicious, no pun intended.

The detective made a promise to himself, a promise that he wouldn't think so far in advance. All that mattered now was finding a healthy sort of stability, because really, going to hospital and scaring John to death just wouldn't do anymore.

He looked down at the take-out John had brought back, considering. Five minutes later, he'd polished off half of the rice.

* * *

Things were looking up, at last.

"God, you look incredible."

John gazed admiringly at his love, standing across the room. He was still lithe and lean (as far as John was concerned, he hoped that never changed), but he looked considerably healthier. Not quite back to where he'd been, of course, but at last his suits fit him properly and his cheeks were flushed with contentment. To say he looked bloody fantastic would be to put it lightly.

"Jesus, Sherlock, do you even see yourself right now?" John asked. "I mean … God. It's only been a month. Do you know how proud I am of you?"

The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked up in a grin. "It's been agonizing, I can assure you."

"Well, you've done great. I'm sure you'll continue to do so."

"John, I was thinking …" Sherlock murmured, stepping close.

"Out with it," John said with a laugh. "Be blunt."

"Every time we have sex, you're so gentle with me," Sherlock said, even more bluntly than John had been expecting. "Like you think you'll break me. I'm stronger now, obviously, so-"

"Let's make a deal," John said, grinning devilishly. "As soon as you're back to your normal weight - or perhaps just a little above - I will …" he considered. "I will positively ravish you. I will make you beg for mercy as you never have in all your life. I will appeal to your vanity as no one has done before."

Sherlock felt himself begin to harden, and welcomed it. "Oh, God," he breathed.

John shook a finger teasingly, as though Sherlock were a naughty child. "Not now," he said, standing on his toes and pecking his love on the mouth. "Not yet. All in due time, though. I promise."

* * *

Small bites turned into big ones, half-eaten meals turned into twice that. It would've been too much to ask Sherlock Holmes to sit down for three square meals a day, but things were definitely improving. He was looking good - great, even. And John was proud. So, _so_ proud.

* * *

Another month passed, and at last, Sherlock had accomplished his goal, and was at an ideal weight. Sure, his shirts were a _little_ tight, but hey, hadn't they always been that way? And he very much liked how his slim hips curved into his buttocks … or, rather, the way John ran his hands up and down them.

"You beautiful git," John gasped, after a particularly grueling case. They had returned, sweat-soaked and breathing heavily, having just caught one of the most notorious criminals of the year. The case had been nicely tied up, leaving them both in good spirits - and rather hot and steamy, of course. John suspected he looked somewhat worse for wear, but Sherlock - well, Sherlock looked radiant. Those beautiful glossy curls, touching those soft cheekbones, the elegant silhouette, the puckered lips, demanding to be kissed. John did just that, to gratifying effect.

"You look perfect," John breathed. He could think of no other word; even that one did absolutely no justice.

"Mmm …" Sherlock sighed, dipping his head low and planting a series of kisses along John's neck.

"Upstairs," John said.

"Agreed."

Once they were up in the bedroom and their clothing was removed, John was all the more impressed by how beautiful Sherlock looked, in all his naked glory. Everything was so much more fully-fleshed. At last, John knew he would not have to be delicate.

Sherlock felt much the same way about John. The ex-soldier had been a ghost of himself over the past few months, grown thin with worry, bags under his eyes and a perpetual frown on his face. Now, finally, John Watson was glowing.

Once the lube was in place, they slipped between the sheets together. John nipped at Sherlock's neck as he thrust, again and again. He listened to Sherlock's moans and was aware of that darkly-curled head, thrown back with each wave of pleasure. He thrust, over and over into that glorious bottom until Sherlock came, and he soon after.

"Oh, G-Ga-owd," Sherlock coughed, collapsing onto his side. "That … that was …"

"Fucking fantastic," John supplied.

"Y-yes."

"God, Sherlock, I wish you knew how _good_ you feel."

Sherlock wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead and gazed up at his love in a state of wonder. "I don't care how I feel … as long as you're happy," he said, grinning.

"Oh, yeah, I'm definitely happy. You feel positively luxurious. Just imagine how you'd feel if you completely gorged yourself."

"John Watson, I never deduced that you had a food kink!" Sherlock exclaimed, laughing.

"I don't," John assured, "I have a healthy kink."

"God, John, your way of putting things is completely sentimental. At least your beloved readers will be happy."

"This would never go on the blog," John promised, finally catching his breath. "Nor will my rubbish phrases. This is just between you and me … and always will be." He thought for a moment. "And I might as well remind you I'm never leaving."

"You don't have to tell me."

"And I'll never stop loving you-"

"For God's sake, John!"

"Forever and ever and ever." With each 'ever', John planted a kiss on Sherlock's middle. His beautiful, lean, more fully-fleshed middle. "I don't want you to ever have to worry again. No more confused relationships, no more not eating, no more deleting memories, none of that. It's all going to be okay now, got it?"

"Yes, sir," Sherlock said, saluting with a smirk. He received a pillow to the head for his efforts.

"Sherlock Holmes, you sassy little twit."

And so it went. Sherlock could insist all he wanted about 'clearing his mind' or 'it all being just transport', and John would play along … to an extent. They both knew Sherlock's condition wouldn't reach critical degree, though. Like John's solemn promise, they knew all would stay the same, unwavering and unfailing. And who knew, maybe Sherlock's need for control would dwindle with time. Things were looking up so much already; was such an idea really so ridiculous?

Sherlock, with John's help, was finding a sort of inner peace, a place where the head did not always have to rule the body. The mind, the body and even the heart could exist peacefully … together.


End file.
